Maliki (Guardian Defenders Book 2)

by Kris Michaels

  He paused, rolled his shoulders and drew a sustaining breath. "My name is Maliki Blue, please address me properly."

  The little woman blinked, her mouth agape. She snapped her mouth shut and nodded. "Of course, sir." She stepped back and opened the door wider.

  Mal headed down the elaborately designed marquetry hallway. The expansive concourse naturally drew the eye from the front of the house to the extravagant gardens at the rear of the residence. The living spaces were divided in half by the intricate, detailed, architectural bay.

  Mal stepped onto the massive loggia and scanned the area for his mother. He found her immediately. She stood when she saw him. His father lifted his head and turned to look in his direction. His father. Damn, he wasn't the man he remembered. No, the man sitting in the wheelchair wasn't the larger than life, egotistical tyrant he recalled. Life, or perhaps the specter of death, had taken its toll on Harrison M. Boswell V. Even from this distance, Mal could see the frailness in his father's frame.

  The deterioration of his physical health was more marked than he'd anticipated and it… startled him, even though it shouldn't. As a doctor, he knew the progressions of diseases and how they affected physical systems. The step by step failures that moved a healthy body into a slow transition toward death were unique to each person, but the overall progression was predictable and inevitable. The only thing guaranteed after birth was death. Watching death approach was difficult when one observed the lonely trial of patients. The loss became arduous and grueling when the person passing was a friend, and it was absolutely debilitating to witness the demise of those who were part of your family.

  Maliki shoved his hands into his jean pockets. Damn it, he wanted to pigeonhole his father in another category, but he couldn't. He'd idolized his father for so many years, seeing him, like this... hurt. A tsunami of emotion plunged him into the depths he'd fought for years. Yet escaping this moment was impossible.

  His mother patted his father's shoulder and said something before she placed a kiss on the man's temple. He focused on the small act of tenderness. He'd never seen any physical kindness between his parents. The reserved and distant relationship they shared didn't perpetuate a loving connection, or at least it hadn't.

  "I'm so glad you came today," his mother said as she approached.

  "I told you I would." His eyes remained locked on the man across the patio.

  "You did." She stopped in front of him and glanced back. "I didn't mean to do this. It's such a lovely morning, and your father is having a good day. We normally sit outside for a while every day. He's been asking for you."

  "Has he?"

  "He wants to talk to you, when you're ready."

  "I'm not sure that would be a pleasant experience for either of us."

  "He knows he failed you. Failed us. Would talking to him cost you more than ignoring him will? His time is waning. His good moments are fewer." She drew a shaky breath and rubbed her arms.

  "I'm not sure I can forgive him."

  "I know." She blinked back moisture and a sad smile appeared for a fraction of a second.

  Mal swung his attention back to his father. He drew a breath and let it go slowly. It was time to deal with his past. The first step wasn't intentional. The second step across those travertine tiles brought realization, the third footfall bolstered his resolve and the fourth... hell, that step drug a small sliver of hope into the light. Hope that he fully expected to be extinguished and buried at the first minute at his father's side, but he couldn't help feeling the tiny shard of emotion.

  He sat down in the chair his mother had vacated and glanced at his father. The left side of his face hung, limp, the muscles no longer working. He tore his attention away and leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers. His eyes scanned the vast, manicured gardens and rolling hills.

  "Thank you."

  He closed his eyes at his father's slurred words. "For what?" He waited, the answer would be slow as his father battled the ravages of the stroke and perhaps the dementia.

  "Coming."

  Mal leaned back in his chair. Thousands of angry words formed and dissolved. A decade of hatred, hurt, and questions condensed into one word. "Why?" he whispered, and turned his eyes slowly to meet the eyes of the man he loved and hated in equal measure.

  A tear formed and fell from his father's eye, and then another followed the first. "Pride. Vanity. Fear." The words were slurred and slow, but clear enough for him to understand.

  He drew a sharp breath and turned away again. So, his old man's reputation had been more important to him than his son. Well, hell, what had he expected? He stared at the hedgerow in the distance. After a moment he shrugged, because hell, he'd come to that realization years ago. "All right."

  He stood and slammed his hands in his pockets again. His father lifted his right arm toward him. "So... damn... sorry."

  He dropped his chin to his chest. For years, those words would have been redemptive, enticing and appreciated. Now? Perhaps it was too little, too late. Trite, but... yet... "Thank you for the apology. Unfortunately, it is about a decade too late. Your actions ruined me. My loving fiancé waited five days before she dumped me. Maybe I should thank you for that. She seemed to love my status and title more than she loved me." A humorless chuff fell between them.

  "Guardian... now?"

  He snorted. "Yes, they recruited me after I spent six years in the Air Force as an enlisted pararescue specialist." Well, fuck him. He was having a conversation with a man he swore he'd never speak to again. He shook his head in disbelief. His damn empathic tendencies sucked balls.

  "Doctor... still?"

  Mal snorted. "Yeah." He glanced at his father. "Thanks to whoever it was that was brave enough to dispute your claim. How did you make it go away? Did you pay off the family?"

  "Settled."

  Of course. Money. His father's answer to everything. "Look, I should probably go." Truth be told, he needed to go find a punching bag or run again. His emotions were twisted, knotted, and bunched tight under his skin, and he needed to work through... everything. But escape didn't look plausible at the moment.

  "Come back. Please." His father's slurred plea hit his bruised psyche and exposed nerves.

  "What purpose would it serve?" He didn't ask to be an ass. He really wanted to know why his father wanted this conversation.

  "Penance."

  Mal barked a laugh. "Mine or yours?"

  "Me. Need to... ask… forgive me."

  Mal blinked back his surprise. "I've attempted to forgive you. I needed to move forward, to become the man I am now."

  "Are you happy?" The words came slowly, but with more confidence.

  He considered the question for a moment. "Content, to a degree. I work for an organization that focuses on the greater good. I'm part of a team. Well, actually we're more than a team. We're brothers and sisters in arms. That bond is special and unique. I'm a better man because of them, and hopefully they are lifted by my efforts." He swung his attention to the doors where his mother stood. She leaned against the wall and stared in their direction.

  "A wife or family?"

  "Ah, that would be a no." He'd dodged a bullet when Clarissa Prentiss tossed him aside, and he didn't date as much as have sex. Like with Poet last night. No strings, no attachments. He'd attempted the 'wine and dine' thing a couple times. Most were flaming disasters. Some ended up in friendships. Jasmine and Jade came to mind.

  "Do you… know... where I am?"

  He snapped his head toward his father. His heart sank. Fucking dementia. "Yes. You’re at your home in the country."

  His father nodded. "I... need to go to the office."

  "Not today."

  "No?"

  "No, no work today."

  Mal stared as his father's eyes slowly blinked closed. He waited for several minutes before he left the side of his sleeping father. A woman in scrubs walked toward him as he walked away. "He's sleeping."

  The nurs
e paused and smiled at him. "I'll sit with him until he wakes and then take him upstairs and get him comfortable again."

  He watched her go.

  "Were you able to talk?" His mother was at his side.

  "Some. He seemed to forget where he was." His mother took his arm, and he turned to escort her back into the house.

  "Since we've got him on a regimen for his blood pressure, it appears the progression has stalled. The doctors tell me if he has another stroke, it could worsen. But breaking down complex tasks into simple steps and reminding him where he is helps his fear and confusion."

  "It must be hard for you." He escorted her to the small sunroom where a table for two had been prepared. He slid her chair away from the table and waited for her to take a seat.

  She sank into the chair and sighed, "It is difficult, but I ask myself what it must be like for him. He was stripped of his practice, his pride, and his independence. He couldn't manage his accounts; he'd get lost going from his apartment to the clinic or the hospital. He's confided in me that he's terrified. I try to keep that fear from being magnified." She placed her damask linen napkin in her lap.

  He copied her actions and within seconds a servant placed a smoked salmon and charred asparagus salad in front of his mother and then him. The food was exceptional, as always. The silence, punctuated by the polite soft sounds of silverware, bordered on oppressive. He finished his salad. "You've lived here since I left?"

  His mother placed her fork on the plate and smiled. "I have friends here. Some more special than others."

  If his eyebrows could have hit the ceiling, they would have. He leaned forward and whispered. "Did you just admit to having a lover?"

  His mother's face went crimson. She cleared her throat and glanced around, probably to make sure there wasn't any staff around to hear her. "Harrison… excuse me, Maliki, I'm old. I'm not dead. Your father and I haven't had marital relations in almost twenty years. I do have a gentleman with whom I am affectionate. I love your father. I'm not in love with him. Your father was... active, but discrete, and I learned from his example. I decided after the incident that forced you from us I was going to become a woman who stood up for herself. What about you? Do you have someone special?"

  He leaned back as the servant entered the sunroom to remove the salad plates. "No. After Clarissa there wasn't anyone, for a long time, and now there is no one special." Poet's smiling face flashed in his mind. He immediately pushed that vision away.

  "That's such a shame. I'm sure she regretted her haste after the truth was discovered, but we'll never know."

  "Well I'm sure as hell not going to call her." A plate of spiced lamb, baby potatoes and roasted vegetables was placed in front of him after his mother's smaller portion was served.

  "You don't know?"

  He sliced a tender piece of lamb. "Know what?"

  "Clarissa Prentiss died in a car accident the summer after you left. It was a few days after her mother passed. Richard was beside himself with grief. He left the country for years, only recently returning."

  "What happened?"

  "A hit and run, I believe."

  "Did they find the person responsible?"

  "No, not to my knowledge. A horrible loss."

  The news was surprising, but there was no rush of emotion tied to the announcement. Clarissa and he had never been in love, but they'd been intimate. Grieving her passing wasn't necessary since he already buried her, at least metaphorically. "That is a shame." With careful movements, he placed his utensils down. "How did Dorothy Prentiss die?"

  "Oh... a massive heart attack. We'd played tennis two weeks before. Such a tragedy. Richard buried them both on the same day. It was a private ceremony. Family only."

  "Where did Richard go?"

  "His villa in Spain, I think. He travels but comes back to check on me. His last trip was to Thailand."

  He picked up his fork and parroted, "Thailand? Really?"

  "Yes, evidently the country is absolutely beautiful. Richard said he immersed himself in the history and learned the culture of the nation. He is unbelievably intelligent."

  He took a bite of food and eyed his mother as a faint hue of rose tinged her cheeks. "So, you and Richard?"

  Her eyes popped wide and met his. "Well... yes."

  "How long?"

  "On and off for years, more so since he returned. But lately, I've been deeply involved in gaining control of your father's business and managing his medical intervention. Richard is a godsend. We visit for hours, and he's comforting. We've gone to Charlottesville to dinner on several occasions and visited New York for the weekend. We're very careful not to upset your father."

  He watched his mother for a moment and returned to his lunch, which now resembled saw dust in his mouth. His mother was seeing another man. The father of his ex-fiancée.

  "I know this isn't my business, but I'm going to ask anyway. Do you and Richard have plans?"

  "Plans? As in?" His mother lifted a tiny bite of lamb to her lips.

  "Marriage."

  She laughed and shook her head. "No. Richard has speculated that someday we may join forces, but your father's disease is one that can linger. Hopefully, he'll have many years of comfortable, quality life ahead of him. I'll be at his side until the end. I have no desire to marry again. Ever." She ate a bite of her food and tipped her head, studying him.

  He ate another bite of the impeccably prepared, and one hundred percent, tasteless, meal. He glanced at his mother who was studying him. "What?"

  "Are you worried about losing your inheritance?"

  "What? Hell no! I don't want a fucking dime of his money. I took the trust fund your mother gave me because it had nothing to do with him."

  She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. "Honey, you are the sole benefactor of your father's estate, with the exception of this house, if you'll allow it. He and I both agreed everything he's amassed should go to you. When I pass, you will receive everything that remains. Besides, I have my own family money, and I have no elaborate needs except for this house and staff to maintain it. My coffers are more than adequate to take care of my needs and have a multitude left for you. Our wills are locked in the safe in your father's office. It doesn't matter if you want the money, it will go to you. After all that has happened... it is the least we can do."

  He pushed his plate away from him and leaned in. "Mother, I don't need or want his or your money. I'm very well paid. I want for nothing; I've established a wonderful life, and I have most of my trust fund available should I need it. It is more than I'll spend in this lifetime."

  "I know, sweet boy. But someday you will have children, pass it on to them."

  "Mom, my chance at a family has come to an end." When he was finished dealing with Poet and his father, he was almost positive he was going to request formal entry into the program at The Rose.

  "Don't ever discount love. It will find you whether you're looking for it or not." Her blush rose again.

  "Do you love Richard?"

  "I believe I'm in love with the idea of being in love with Richard. Everyone should have that one person who simply takes their breath away. Richard isn't that person, but he's lovely. More than I've had in the past."

  "I'm sorry your life has been..." He shrugged. How did he verbalize regretting she’d had a life of opulence instead of one brimming with love? He'd witnessed both sides of that coin. He'd pick true love, family and friends any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

  "Half-lived? I signed up for this life with my eyes wide open. What I didn't realize was I was dooming you to the same type of loneliness. I know you didn't love Clarissa, but she would have made a proper wife for you."

  He couldn't dispute her statement. They would have been successful and utterly hollow. The plates were cleared before two individual tart dishes with two exquisitely, decadent strawberry gateau were presented and placed in front of them. "Your favorite. I had the chef make it for you." His mother smiled and gestured to t
he delicacy.

  He hadn't had a gateau since... Well since the last time he'd been here. The Air Force dining facilities weren't horrible, but they didn't provide haute cuisine—unless you asked the Army. The Army would definitely say the Air Force catered to its people. His time in Guardian had been a three-way divide between MREs, take out, and solitary meals. He tested a small bite and closed his eyes as the flavor burst onto his taste buds. "Absolute perfection."

  His mother laughed happily. "Thank you for coming back, and thank you for trying. I know this is hard for you. I also know you don't have to be here, that you could walk away."

  Except he couldn't. Not now. Not after Poet's plea for assistance and not after the few words he shared with his father. "I've decided to stay for a while. A month or so, perhaps."

  Her fork clattered to her plate. "Will you stay with us?"

  He smiled sadly and shook his head. "I'll stay in town. I'm trying. Give me time. This isn't easy for me."

  "No, no, of course not. You were hurt by people you trusted. Wounded by our actions. I was rash to ask, but I won't lie, I'm so grateful you came, that you're willing to try." She lifted her napkin and dabbed at her eyes. "It is more than we deserve."

  He smiled sadly. More than anything he wanted to bridge the canyon of pain, isolation, and anger that had split him from his mother and his father. He'd try to move forward, at his pace, in his way, so he could minimize the damage walking through that minefield could cause, both to his parents and to himself. Today was a tenuous start to a harrowing journey. However, one thing he'd learned since he'd left this life was the art of survival. Life had knocked the shit out of him twice, but he'd gotten back up. If this situation imploded, he'd find an outcropping and prop himself up until he was ready to fight again. He wasn't who his family once knew, he was more. He was a Guardian, a warrior, and yes, a healer.

  Chapter 7

  Poet chuckled at her best friend, Tillie, who flopped into the luncheon booth across from her. Tillie shoved her purse against the wall, swiped her mass of curls away from her face and flagged the waitress as she passed. "Hey, Marie, the usual please?"